“Where I come from, lots of front porch sittin'” sings country singer Alan Jackson.  I can relate.  Where I grew up in the rural Florida panhandle, there was absolutely nothing to do.  I can remember as a child, long afternoons and evenings sitting quietly with kinfolk, sometimes playing with my cousins, but mostly just listening to the soft conversation between adults ebb and flow across the broad wooden veranda.  There were extended periods of just plain silence, with no one speaking at all.  Crickets and frogs were a symphonic backdrop.  Thinking back on those days brings me a sense of peace immediately.  Few noises permeated the quiet farm country community of one lane crossroads.  The occasional pickup truck moved slowly past my grandmother’s house, neighbors gesturing with a single raised hand off the steering wheel.  The deep, silent countryside surrounded her home like a soft blanket.  What everyone talked about on those front porches was something of a mystery to me, but I remember well a few of my aunts and uncles with a knack for keeping it interesting and alive.  My favorite uncle, Zeteker Connor was married to my grandfather’s sister and told colorful stories to kids and adults alike.  A rugged outdoors-man and farmer, he spoke gently with humor and good will, whether about cars or crops or faith, and he led so many of those evenings with optimism and a glint in his eye.  Zeteker had an instinct for keeping things light and upbeat, even in serious times.  A favorite topic:  Beatrice, his life-long companion and wife, ever celebrated in his stories.  Kind-hearted and gracious, he was one of the most “soul-ful” men I ever knew.

Times have changed.  I no longer live in farming country.  I’m known among my still-rural relatives as “living down South”  (as in South Florida, a foreign country to them).  I’m a “city dweller” now, and relish the fast pace and rich cultural environment that it brings.  The world, now a place of greater complexity.  In spite of the “busy-ness”,  I’ve learned to adapt and to bring along with me some of the serenity of those “front porch sittins”.  In grad school, I took up Zen meditation and the practice has stayed with me ever since.  I regularly grab my “sitting cushion” and turn to that gentle discipline when too much “news”, too many internet pages and the frenetic pace of life begins to “un-ground” me.  I light a stick of incense, stare out at my garden fence, slow down my breathing and give my mind a rest.  I also think often of my uncle Zeteker,   a Zen master if ever there was one.  Effortlessly guiding his mind, and the minds of those he loved toward gentle thoughts of grace and presence and love.  “H’it don’t really matter,” he was fond of saying, when occasionally the evening conversation would turn sour with bad news or someone’s complaining.  He was pointing out that we often speak of complaint and negativity almost automatically, ignoring the beauty surrounding us and the majesty of a daily life well lived.  What we focus on determines what we miss.  A central tenet of Gestalt Psychology, one of our most powerful and important skills is our choice of what to bring from “the field” into the “foreground.”  What are you talking about?